Leave the bastard. Kick him out into the fruity liaisons of territories still in contention. That seems to be all Jack can produce of himself. Man I grieve knowing all the potential Jack holds in his little finger, and could possibly manage into greatness, yet he continues to fuck up. You can imagine how stunned I was, the first time we ever met, when he remarked out of the blue in priceless gravity that he wished he could be like me...

I now suppose he was right, once upon a time. I am me, he ain't.

That was some strong detail you suffered, dahling. Jack is a real ass, I'm sorry. Frankly I love you, not him, although Gene Wilcox and I were just watching Jack coordinate a video shoot we made back in the day, blah blah...and still recognize the power of Jack's presence...

I wish I could add more to the record but I'm not only tired, I'm on the tail end of an 18 hour drunk. Gene, who thinks, argues thinking he is, but ultimately agrees that I, not he, is the baby Jesus, whatever that means, is still here passed out on the couch...

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Quoth the Raven

"Intellectual economics guarantees that even the most powerful and challenging work cannot protect itself from the order of fashion. Becoming-fashion, becoming-commodity, becoming-ruin. Such instant, indeed retroactive ruins, are the virtual landscape of the stupid underground. The exits and lines of flight pursued by Deleuze and Guattari are being shut down and rerouted by the very people who would take them most seriously."